


Baby-bots, Spark-Attacks, and Cuddle-Buddies

by Pyreite



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Family, Gen, Male Bonding, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyreite/pseuds/Pyreite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post Darkside of the Moon] Ever wondered what happened to Megatron's generation of bouncing baby hatchlings?  They've found a new home with Mommy Ratchet, Uncle Sam, and the Autobots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby-bots, Spark-Attacks, and Cuddle-Buddies

**Warnings:** _This ficlet contains cute baby-bots, assumes Megatron is still deactivated as in DOTM, and that Jazz is a spontaneous cuddler when he’s exceptionally happy._

It was small, ugly, and covered in interlocking strips of metal.  The head was boxy, the cheeks and chin sharp and triangular, and the mouth was filled with two rows of jagged silver fangs.  The hatchling’s robotic equivalent of teeth was a dentist’s nightmare.  The miniature mechanised lifeform squealed pathetically, floundered like a fish on dry-land, and started to drag itself across the concrete floor of Ratchet’s medical bay.  The Autobot’s Chief Medical Officer literally had his hands full. 

Ratchet was juggling two more hungry hatchlings, an enormous titanium sippy-cup, and a cybertronian-sized decanter of low-grade energon.  He scowled when Samuel Witwicky tried to make a break for the door.  The boy, barely a sparkling himself, could _move_ when he wanted too.  “ _Stop right there_!” barked Ratchet.  Sam frantically scrambled for the scant few feet of space between Optimus Prime’s ankle-joints.

“Optimus!  _Catch him_!”

Optimus clapped his heels together with a metallic clang.  The route of Sam’s escape was suddenly blocked by ten-foot-wide pedes, fifteen-foot-tall blue autobot shins, and a pair of gigantic metal hands.  “Sam, please don’t make this harder than it needs to be”.  Optimus sighed when he heard the hatchling crawling across the floor whimper pitifully.  The little creature had taken a special liking to Sam and would fuss, wail, and refuse to refuel unless he was nearby.

Optimus had a healthy respect for his tiny human ally.  Sam was a capable, resilient, and resourceful young man who had proven time and again that he was a friend to the Autobots.  His reluctance to chip in this time round, to help out, and be another readily available pair of hands was a tad disappointing.  The hatchlings were hungry, Ratchet was in his cranky-mothering-mode, and Sam was being unreasonably uncooperative.  Megatron had been deactivated, but, the _sneaky_ Leader of the Decepticons had left behind a generation of bouncing baby-bots that demanded round the clock care and attention.

Optimus hadn’t enjoyed an undisturbed round of recharge for five orns.  He was tired, irritable, and not above impressing upon Sam that (as an unofficial member of _Team_ _Autobot_ ) he had responsibilities too.  “We require your assistance”.  The boy’s mouth was already emphasizing the strong negative sound of that annoyingly inconvenient human word.  Optimus cut Sam off before he could refuse by jabbing the tip of a huge metal index finger, twice the size of his head, in his face. 

“ _Whoa_!”

Optimus rolled his optics when Sam reflexively stepped backward.  Sam kept glancing from the tip of the Prime’s finger to his stern silver face.  “I must insist that you remain here in close proximity to Ratchet and the hatchlings”.  Optimus exhaled noisily through his vents.  “Were circumstances different I would not impose upon you, Sam, but in due consideration of Ratchet’s needs, and the general health and well-being of the hatchlings.  I cannot as you humans say accept ‘ _No_ ’ for an answer”.

Sam’s lip curled.  “You think you’ve got problems!  My girlfriend threatened to disown me!  She does not appreciate being woken up at 2.00 AM in the morning by a Hollywood lightshow complete with blaring horns and shrieking car-alarms!”  He glared at the uncomfortable sunshine-yellow autobot hiding in Optimus’s shadow.  Bumblebee looked left to right when several pairs of optics focused on him.  He self-consciously shuffled his pedes when Optimus, Ratchet, and the hatchlings stared.

The silence was intense until Bumblebee, deciding that diplomacy was out the window, pointed to his Commander and Chief.  “ _He said it was an emergency_!”  Optimus pinched the bridge of his nasal-plate.  The ache pulsing in his processor, the result of too little recharge, made him groan wearily.  He should have known better than to send Bumblebee.  The brashest member of the autobots, although Jazz’s protégé in espionage and reconnaissance, had as much tact as a steaming pile of slag.

Jazz was usually Optimus’s preferred choice in handling the more delicate matters of Autobot affairs, but Ratchet had vetoed any plans that could have involved him fetching Sam.  Jazz was still under house-arrest until he fully recovered from finally being repaired, rebuilt, and reactivated via the Matrix of Leadership.  Bumblebee had been Optimus’s final choice outside of Sideswipe who liked to run red lights, Jolt who could cause a city-wide blackout by wiggling his fingers, and the Wreckers who could reduce an ordinary human to tears with their overbearing personalities.  Sam was far from ordinary but even his bravery quavered under the scrutiny of the smart-mouthed trio of autobot-engineers that had designed, built, and maintained the Xanthium.  Bumblebee lacked Jazz’s charm and subtlety but he was hardworking, dependable, and capable of getting the job done albeit noisily.

Optimus was relieved to finally have Sam in Ratchet’s medical bay even if the boy was terribly annoyed, sleep-deprived, and trying his best to ignore the hatchling’s miserable squalling.  The pitiful sound, akin to a baby’s cry, was shrill and distressed.  Sam was reluctant to recognize the hatchling’s plea for attention but seconds passed, the wailing intensified, and his conscience prevailed.  The hatchling was a sapient machine but still in essence an infant in need of care, nurturing, and protection.  Sam slowly turned around.

“I can’t believe that I’m doing this.  You just better have quarters setup for me, Optimus.  I am not sleeping on the floor where you guys can stomp on me.  I expect to be kept happy, well-fed, and entertained during my stay”.

Optimus was pleasantly surprised when Sam wandered over to the sniffling hatchling.  The little bot, barely the size of an oil drum, extended stubby metal arms and uncurled tiny clawed fingers.  The hatchling turned round red optics on Sam and silently pleaded to be picked up.  The gesture was so recognizably human that Sam grimaced.  “Oh don’t do that”, he told the hatchling.  “You’re the hellspawn of Megatron.  You’re supposed to be nasty and evil not small and cute and helpless”.

The hatchling’s lower-jaw wobbled.  Sam winced when the baby-bot sucked in a vent-full of air, opened its fanged maw, and howled.  The resonant scream cracked Bumblebee’s headlights.  Optimus Prime’s vents hitched when his subordinate swore in cybertronian, stomped a pede, and was immediately clanked in the helm by one of Ratchet’s famous flying wrenches.  “Don’t curse in front of the hatchlings!” snarled the irate medic.

Bumblebee’s optics watered.  He gingerly probed his helm, felt the uneven ridges of a sizable dent, and complained bitterly.  “ _That fragging hurt_!”  Ratchet brandished a second wrench and shook it menacingly.  Bumblebee hit the ground, dive-rolled, and took shelter behind Optimus. 

The Leader of the Autobots wheezed through his vents.  He was trying to maintain his composure but Ratchet, Bumblebee, and Sam were making it awfully difficult to remain professional.  The steel shell of Optimus’s mask locked in place over his mouth and nasal-plates.  His optics, a bright cheery blue, winked in and out like stars when Sam rebuked Ratchet.  “ _No one dents my car_!  _Put the wrench down, Ratchet_!  _Put it down_!”

The raised voices were upsetting the hatchling at Sam’s feet.  The little bot curled into a ball around his ankles, grasped the hem of his jeans, and inhaled a second round of air through its vents.  “Ratchet!  He’s getting his second wind!  If this little guy keeps bawling than the two you’ve got will start shrieking too!”  Sam glanced from the snivelling hatchling to its brothers cradled in Ratchet’s arms.  The other hatchlings had lost interest in the sippy-cup loaded with energon. 

Ratchet was having a hard time trying to encourage the fussy pair to drink.  The hatchlings, intuitively affected by their brother’s stress, screwed up their faces, and refused to refuel.  Optimus Prime saw his Chief Medical Officer abandon that preferred weapon of choice.  The wrench clattered to the ground, forgotten, and Ratchet, more concerned with his charges, made soothing sounds.  “Shush.  I’m not mad at Bumblebee anymore.  There’ll be no more yelling or hurling of inanimate metal objects.  Now be good sparklings and drink your energon”.

Optimus pressed a hand to his masked mouth.  He was trembling with the effort of repressing his laughter.  He watched Ratchet try to reintroduce the lip of the sippy-cup to the mouth of one sulky hatchling.  The baby-bot stubbornly refused to feed while his petulant brother gnawed on Ratchet’s thumb.  Optimus was soon leaning on an astonished Bumblebee for support when Sam scolded their wily Chief Medic.

“Your bedside manner seriously sucks-aft.  You’ve made the hatchlings grouchy, dented Bumblebee, and Optimus looks like he’s going to have a fit.  Your medbay needs a warning sign on the front door: _Beware – Home of Mad Medical Genius.  He dents helms.  Survival Tip: Duck the flying wrenches_ ”.

Ratchet’s nasal-plate wrinkled when Optimus stumbled to the door.  Bumblebee was awkwardly patting the Prime on the back when he doubled over.  Optimus was panting through his vents between bouts of coughing, gagging, and short bursts of rusty croaking.  _“_ Ratchet!” called a concerned Bumblebee.  “I think Optimus’s fuel-intakes are clogged!”

The Chief Medic glowered when his esteemed superior’s shoulders shook.  He knew what was clogging the Prime’s fuel-intakes.  Optimus was too polite to trip over his own pedes, fall on the floor, and roll around laughing his aft off like a vorn-old sparkling.  “Escort Optimus to his quarters, Bumblebee.  All he needs right now is a good cycle of recharge.  He’ll be fine in a few joors”, assured Ratchet.  He nodded encouragingly when Bumblebee hooked Optimus’s arm over his shoulder-plates, and helped him out of the medbay and into the corridor. 

The clink of pistons, the whirr of servos, and the stomp of pedes faded into the distance.  Ratchet arched a brow-plate when Sam knelt beside the unhappy hatchling latched like a scraplet round his calf.  The baby-bot was grizzling like a broken faucet.  The coolant leaking from its shuttered optics was fast soaking the fabric of Sam’s jeans.  Ratchet had observed Lennox interact with his daughter on occasion, the tenderness between parent and child was understandable, however, Sam’s reaction to the hatchling was perplexing. 

“ _Aw_!  _Who’s a cute little death-bot_!  _You are_!  _Yes you are_!”

Ratchet gaped when Sam tickled under the hatchling’s jaw.  He was amazed when the baby-bot ceased to cry.  The hatchling gurgled happily, red optics glowed, and Ratchet couldn’t believe the spiel of nonsense that Sam cooed like a turbo-dove.  “ _Who’s going to grow up to be a big and mean Decepticon-Aft-Kicking-Machine_!  _You are_!  _Yes you are_!”  Ratchet’s optic twitched when Sam used the sleeve of his jersey to dry the hatchling’s wet faceplate.

“Aw.  There, there.  You’re just starved for a little affection huh?”  Sam smiled wryly, gently tweaked the hatchling’s nasal-plate, and continued to dab at its damp cheek and chin-plates.  He made a game of dodging the hatchling’s nimble jaws when it tried to bite his fingers, its supple neck a combination of struts and pistons, gave it surprising flexibility.  “You’re too slow!” teased Sam while Ratchet observed the fun and games with growing concern.

The hatchling’s head jerked forward and Sam’s fingers disappeared inside that powerful metal mouth.  Ratchet nearly tripped over his own pedes, hatchlings in hand, in his rush to liberate Sam.  He was expecting crushed bones, lacerated skin, and fountains of blood spurting from severed arteries.  Ratchet did not expect Sam to be cool, calm, and collected while seemingly having his hand bitten off by an overenthusiastic hatchling.  “What did I say last time?  Oh don’t even try to look innocent.  I know perfectly well that you have an excellent memory in that little metal cranium”.

Ratchet was astonished when Sam looked the hatchling in the optic, raised a finger, and gently tapped it on the tip of its nasal-plate.  “ _No biting_ ”.  Sam nodded to the autobot medic that was hovering over them like a worried mother-hen.  “Uncle Sam is a fragile humanbeing and not a durable metal giant like Mommy Ratchet.  Fragile means breakable.  Breakable means a mouthful of something horrible, squishy, and disgusting that tastes worse than stale energon”.  Ratchet frowned when the hatchling spat out Sam’s hand.

The rather inventive interpretation of organic fragility had yielded a favourable result, but, Sam had taken a foolish risk.  The hatchlings were generally obstinate by nature, once something was caught between their fangs, they did not like to relinquish custody or control.  Ratchet had already lost fourteen yards of chain, a steel winch, and a box of braided wires necessary for repairs to this particular hatchling’s inquisitive chewing.  Sam was inedible by cybertronian standards but he still could have lost his fingers, hand, and arm to the elbow if the hatchling had exerted an ounce of the considerable biting strength in its jaws.  Ratchet knew that the game of teasing could have escalated into something far more serious.

Sam gave the baby-bot a comforting pat on the helm when it grimaced, gagged, and almost purged what little fuel was inside its fuel-tank.  “Now you know not to bite humans.  We taste awful.  Take it from an expert kid.  You’re better off sticking to energon”.  Sam turned his newly freed hand over and found two rows of tiny red welts from the hatchling’s fangs.  He paused when he saw the glint of blue out of the corner of his eye.  Sam gazed up into Ratchet’s disapproving face.  He froze like a rodent dazzled by the headlights of an oncoming car. 

Ratchet’s shadow was large, long, and incredibly intimidating, especially, when the autobot medic exuded the aura of an exasperated parental unit.  Sam’s shoulders drooped.  He felt a puny four inches tall under Ratchet’s glaring optics.  The hatchling trembled, bowed its head, and snuggled into Sam’s side for comfort.  Sam smiled self-consciously, slung an arm across the hatchling’s shoulder-plates, and together they presented themselves in a show of solidarity that made Ratchet’s spark ache.

The reality of a human succeeding where the Autobots had failed worried the moody medic.  He valiantly tried to maintain the aura of paternal frustration but two more little faces looked up at him with round red optics that oozed innocence.  The hatchlings in Ratchet’s arms ( _like their naughty brother beside Sam_ ) were transformers in their infancy, newly sparked, impressionable, and ignorant of the prejudices, pain, and history that still divided the remaining Autobot and Decepticon forces.  The realisation that Sam could look beyond the history that he shared with the Decepticons and foster friendship with a scion of Megatron’s legacy gave Ratchet renewed hope.  Sam and the tiny baby-bot curled against him were a reflection of what was possible, a future where all transformers, regardless of factional ties and loyalties, were united. 

“Ratchet, is everything all right?”

The Chief Medical Officer cleared his vents with a hoarse cough when Bumblebee peered from the doorway into the medbay.  The poignant silence was broken.  Ratchet blinked hastily trying to clear the impending flood of coolant from his optics.  The hatchlings in his arms, seeming to sense the change in his mood, chirred pleasantly and nuzzled his chin plate.  Ratchet paused when Sam raised an index finger, sniffled loudly, and rapidly blinked watery eyes. 

“We need a few minutes, Bee”.

Bumblebee glanced from Ratchet to Sam.  He wasn’t entirely sure about what was going on but he respected the need for patience.  He waited quietly while his friends composed themselves.  Teary eyes and optics were wiped, runny noses and nasal-plates were cleansed, and soon Ratchet and Sam were exchanging understanding nods and smiles in the companionable silence.  Bumblebee scratched his helm confusedly and wondered what in Primus’s name had caused the grumpy medic and his dearest human friend to bond over the hatchlings. 

“Now doesn’t that just make your spark melt?”

Bumblebee slammed into the steel frame of the medbay’s doorway.  He gasped through his vents, startled by the intrusion, of a friendly voice and face.  Bumblebee groaned in relief when he saw a rather smug Jazz grinning good-naturedly.  The smaller autobot, a patchwork of still healing welding scars, patted Bumblebee on the shoulder.  “Easy there, Bee.  It’s just little old me.  Give you a fright did I?”

Jazz shrugged his shoulder-plates nonchalantly when Bumblebee gave him a dirty look.  He was the quietest of the autobots, capable of sneaking around without the slightest creak of armour, the clank of pedes, or the noisy clink, buzz, and hiss of hydraulics.  Jazz moved like a sleek and silent hunter.  He gave Bumblebee constant spark-attacks whenever he showed up out of the blue without making a single sound to announce his arrival.  “ _Jazz_!  _Don’t do that_!” panted Bumblebee.  “ _I nearly fried my processor_!”

“I don’t see smoke wafting out of your audio sensors”, ribbed Jazz.  He enjoyed needling Bumblebee on occasion.  The bot was a couple hundred vorns old but still young enough to be brazen, rash, and high-strung.  Bumblebee hadn’t been around long enough for the burden of the cybertronian civil war to wear on his spark and leave him an old bitter veteran that would readily have drowned his sorrows in a flagon of high-grade energon.  Jazz knew from experience that sometimes it was a relief for the older autobots like himself, Ratchet, and Optimus, to forget their woes for a few joors than to remember the faces of friends, family, and lovers lost in the unrelenting sea of the war that had lasted aeons. 

Bumblebee wasn’t the baby of the Autobot clan anymore but he was the equivalent in cybertronian age to Sam, a young adult who was eager to stretch his coils, clamps, and callipers.  Luckily there were few other bots around his age with curves and lines smooth enough to distract him from his duties.  “That’s very observant of you”, Bumblebee retorted dryly.  His arms folded across his chest-plates in agitation, his optics shone an angry electric blue, and he sulked in front of the Head of Autobot Intelligence and Special Operations.  Bumblebee petulantly slouched against the medbay door.  He knew that Jazz’s background as a spy and saboteur, had given his superior an excellent grounding in reading, interpreting, and understanding the subtleties of cybertronian body-language.

The hard slant of Bumblebee’s shoulders, the tight angle of his chin, and way his helmed-head was held high on stiff neck-struts spoke volumes about his mood.  His youthful pride had taken another knock from Jazz’s natural ability to slink into and around the Autobot base without triggering the maze of security alarms, motion sensors, and wall-mounted cameras.  Jazz was quieter than a glitch-mouse, wilier than a turbo-fox, and slier than Ratchet when the medic stooped to bribing his patients onto a medical berth.  Bumblebee being a scout by function hated how he was always caught unawares whenever Jazz crept out of shadowy corners.  The older autobot had a wealth of age and experience on him and it was at times like this that Bumblebee was reminded of how very _young_ he really was.

Jazz eyed his protégé.  Bumblebee’s bravado started to seep away the longer that his mentor kept that tense silent vigil.  The visor, thick and concave, curved from one side of Jazz’s faceplate to the other, concealing the pair of cobalt optics underneath from view.  Light danced across that glassy band in flashes of brilliant blue, grassy green, and deep purple.  Bumblebee was soon venting hard and trembling with anxiety.

He was fully expecting Jazz to express disappointment in those hauntingly soft and gentle tones that were his mentor’s defining quality.  Jazz rarely raised his voice to argue a point or convey a message.  He was quiet when Ironhide bellowed, courteous when Ratchet terrorized, and sensible when Optimus hesitated.  Bumblebee had missed the easy-going camaraderie that he’d shared with Jazz before his mentor’s untimely death under Megatron’s claws.  He was glad to have the saboteur back onside but loathe to disappoint him, especially now, when Jazz was still adjusting to the changes that had occurred during his absence.

Bumblebee gawked when shades of red, pink, and orange flickered across Jazz’s visor.  His mentor’s helmed head bowed low on his neck-struts, shook back and forth giddily, and the laughter soon followed in a rich and rolling cadence of throaty chortles.  Jazz’s shoulder-plates rattled.  “You honestly thought that I was going to holler at you!  Primus’s brassy-balls, Bee!  Five stellar-cycles I’ve been gone and you’ve gotten yourself wound tighter than a Decepticon’s sphincter!”  Jazz snorted through his nasal-plates, chuckled merrily, and patted a mortified Bumblebee on the back.

“ _Jazz_!” squeaked the scout.  “ _You’re embarrassing me_!”

Bumblebee hastily tried to shake off Jazz’s hand but soon found himself engulfed in a pair of short but strong arms.  His optics were round, wide, and staring pleadingly at Sam and Ratchet when Jazz hugged him.  The smaller autobot, clinging like a leech, was fast sucking up Bumblebee’s youthful exuberance.  “I don’t need coddling!  I’m an Autobot not a sparkling!”  Bumblebee tried to shove his mentor away, but Jazz being extraordinarily quick, merely caught his wrist, pinned his arm, and locked his elbow-joint. 

Bumblebee waddled further into the medbay with Jazz firmly glued to his hip.  The short if stout saboteur had wrapped his arms round the younger scout’s middle.  Bumblebee was panic-stricken.  “ _Jazz_!  _Get off_!”  He desperately tried to reason with Ratchet.  “Give me a crowbar!  A wrench!  I don’t care!  Just make him stop hugging me!  Ratchet!  I’m serious!  He’s squeezing my ventilation-chamber!  I can’t cycle air!  _Ratchet_!  _Stop smiling and help me_!”

“Calm down!” snapped the amused Chief Medical Officer.  Ratchet had finally persuaded his two fussy hatchlings to drink their energon.  He wasn’t about to let Bumblebee disturb their contented suckling when it had already taken a joor to get them settled.  “Jazz was deactivated for five stellar-cycles.  He thinks of you as a younger brother.  He obviously missed you more than the rest of us, Bumblebee.  Just mute your vocaliser and endure his affection.  Jazz will eventually fall off like a sated cyber-tick when he’s ready to let go”.  Ratchet saw Sam’s grip slacken and soon the fuel-line slipped out from between his own hatchling’s jaws.

The baby-bot wailed hungrily.  Sam was snickering while he groped for the siphoning hose coiling from the small pressure pump attached to the large gas-can beside him.  The hose, capped with a steel teat-like nozzle, dribbled energon onto the concrete floor.  Sam avoided touching the sizzling pink splatters while he retrieved the fallen fuel-line.  “Hang in there, Bee.  Jazz just needs time to rekindle those feelings of friendship and brotherhood common to all Mechs and Men.  Sometimes the best way to reinforce those feelings is with a good strong manly embrace”, Sam advised with a remarkably straight face.

Jazz tucked his helm under Bumblebee’s chin-plate.  He was grinning like a shark when Sam sang to his hatchling.  The fuel-line wiggled like an eel, the nozzle veering left and right in wide arcs, while Sam crooned to the ravenous baby-bot.  “ _Here comes the race-car_!  _It’s zooming down the freeway_!  _Raise the checkered flag_!  _We’re going to cross the finish line_!”  The hatchling’s excited chirps sounded like blips and pops of infantile giggling to Jazz’s audio sensors.

The hatchling readily bit down on the nozzle again.  Sam chuckled.  The baby-bot resumed refuelling and overhead Ratchet was watching them with an indulgent smile.  Jazz was sad that Optimus was too busy recharging to enjoy the family atmosphere.  The Boss-Bot certainly needed his rest but right now their Prime was missing out on one of the truly happy downtimes that occurred during those rare stretches of peace between battles.

The civil war didn’t matter right now.  Megatron’s scattered Decepticon forces didn’t concern Jazz.  The friends, family, and loved ones that he’d lost didn’t haunt him.  Jazz relaxed against Bumblebee, smirked, and offered his protégé a titbit of helpful advice.  “You got to roll with the punches, Bee.  Take the good with the bad.  Take the happy with the sad because life can be hard, but at times like this, when you’re surrounded by good friends and good times, is when you realise that all of the struggle and heartache is worth it”.

Bumblebee glared at the smaller autobot cuddling his chassis.  Jazz had always been more physically expressive with his emotions than Optimus, Ironhide, and Ratchet.  He wasn’t staid and reserved.  If Jazz wanted to snuggle he’d readily attach himself, like an oversized twenty-foot-tall metal leech, to the nearest available ‘ _friendly_ ’ autonomous robotic lifeform.  Bumblebee had never seen his mentor hug a Decepticon, but Ironhide had once informed him of a time when Jazz had flustered Megatron’s Second-In-Command.

Bumblebee wondered about his mentor’s sanity.  Ironhide hadn’t gone into specifics but his animated laughter had certainly indicated that Jazz had been wildly creative enough to unsettle the screechy Decepticon Air Commander.  Starcream had apparently forgotten that he’d had wings, fallen out of Earth’s sky, and crashed into the ocean screaming obscenities.  Bumblebee cringed.  He didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Jazz’s touchy-feely happiness.

“Can you let go of me now?”

Jazz laid his helm on Bumblebee’s upper-arm, smiled raptly, and continued to watch Ratchet and Sam feed the hatchlings.

“Not a chance”.

“But I can’t feel the circuits in my arm!” whined Bumblebee.

“Don’t care.  I am comfortable, happy, and not moving from this spot”. 

Bumblebee tried to jostle Jazz loose.  He groaned in annoyance when the smaller autobot slid under his raised arm, resumed the horribly invasive _hugging_ protocol, and snuggled closer.  Bumblebee was ready to bitterly complain about Jazz’s gross breach of his bubble of _personal space_ when Ratchet glanced his way.  The medic’s brow-plates furrowed, his optics gleamed steely grey-blue, and his mouth-plates turned down in that unhappy temperamental scowl.  Bumblebee recalled how he’d gotten that dent in the helm.

Ticking Ratchet off again would no doubt invite another volley of flying wrenches. 

Bumblebee winced and resignedly drew his arm round Jazz’s neck.  Ratchet’s bark was just as bad as his bite.  Bumblebee awkwardly patted Jazz on the shoulder.  He wasn’t one for grand gestures unless it involved dismantling Decepticons with cannon-fire, but, he supposed that he could endure a joor or two of being his mentor’s cuddle-buddy.  Bumblebee grimaced when Sam took notice of his discomfort, sniffled comically, and wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. 

“You’re just made of awesome, Bee!  If I was twenty-feet-tall and made of metal I’d hug you too!”

“ _Shut up, Sam_!” grumbled Bumblebee.

Sam grinned unrepentantly.  “Love you too, Bee.  Love you too”.


End file.
